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“You’re outnumbered,” not-Algernon said. “Give up, Your Highness.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I rather think I won’t.” Hawthorn’s voice sounded far steadier than he felt. Hewasoutnumbered. The woman in the stream would be back any minute, he was not a skilled fighter and—
Juliana wasn’t here.
She’d be so pissed off if he died.
He could almost hear her voice.“How dare you die. Have you no regard for my efforts these past three years? You promised me knighthood, Prince Prickle!”
He couldn’t die. She wouldn’t let him.
Too late, he remembered the damned pendant, hot against his chest. It worked both ways. He could have found her at any point.
Hestillcould.
Hurling another fireball towards his attackers, he bolted from the spot. At each footfall, tiny fissures erupted behind him, churning the ground beneath their feet, slowing them down. The tug against his chest pulled him onwards, towards Autumn.
Juliana.
Something snagged at his foot, yanking him to the ground. A rope. Not-Algernon dragged him backwards as he fought for something to cling onto, turning at the last moment as a blade towered above him. He ripped another root out of the earth, wrapping it around his hand.
Not-Algernon was undeterred. He reached for another.
Roots hovered behind Hawthorn, like cobras ready to strike. He knew how to end this.
“Don’t,” he implored his assailant. “Please—”
The blade moved.
So did Hawthorn’s roots.
They tore through the ground, straight through the assassin’s chest.
He was dead before he hit the ground.
The second assassin let out a scream, racing towards Hawthorn as the roots twisted out of not-Algernon’s chest, leaving a gaping hole in his torso the size of a fist.
This time, Hawthorn didn’t plead, or reason.
He said nothing, even as the vines twisted round the attacker’s throat, even when the bone and muscle popped and trembled beneath the roots, straining so hard that Hawthorn could feel it in his own hands.
He strangled the man to death.
Faeries avoided saying sorry, but the word raced round inside of him, pulsing with fear.
The man’s face had turned an awful, bluish purple.
I killed him. I killed him.
He thought he might be sick.
He breathed, hard and shuddering, thoughts muddled and frozen and everywhere at once.
His pendant throbbed.
Juliana—
He turned, only to find himself face to face with the third assassin, dripping wet from the river.
